


Death

by impactEvents



Category: The Sims (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Other, the player's motivations aren't what you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24406630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impactEvents/pseuds/impactEvents
Summary: The player murders a Sim's husbands; the Sim and Death chat it up.
Relationships: Grim Reaper (The Sims)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 8





	Death

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in 2018 as a prompt fill for a writing group i was in. still like it a couple years later, so hope y'all do, as well.

Jen was cranky.  


She'd slept like shit, the television turning on and off all through the night; she'd missed both her shower and breakfast; and she hadn't had a proper chance to destress in days.

So, she was cranky. Being so, she'd left work early. There being no carpool, she'd walked. That was fine; it was barely a block.

Jen paused at the edge of her lot. A familiar alarm bell sounded in her brain despite the silence. She quickened her pace, running inside the house to the kitchen.

Brock was there. He might have only been a pile of ashes, but she could deduce the situation fast enough by now. Beside him stood a tall, cloaked figure, chattering away on a flip phone, casually spinning a scythe. And around them, the kitchen blazed. Before she could call the emergency services, find an extinguisher, or even utter a sound, a light soaked the room, forcing her to shut her eyes, look away.

When it faded, a perfectly round stone urn stood where Brock had been. The Reaper snapped their cell phone shut - how antiquated, Jen thought, not for the first time - and looked to her.

"Oh. You're early." This seemed to amuse the Reaper, and they moved on to the living room, ignoring the ongoing inferno. Jen spun on the blaze, snatching an extinguisher from the air and systematically putting out fires. She knew they should have added a fire alarm when they moved in. A burnt rug crunched under her feet as she advanced; Brock had been cooking with it in front of the stove. Idiot.

Her mood had soared upon her return home, and it didn't take long for her to finish. She tossed the extinguisher away and stormed into the den, where the Reaper sat, watching cartoons.

"I  _ am _ sorry, I don't think the player or I wanted you to have to see it this time," they said between chuckles.

"It's whatever. But this is like, the third this week, Reaper." She ignored her phone as it pinged. And that would be the life insurance hitting her. Again. "I have enough money."

The Reaper shrugged. "The player's the one who makes death happen, not me."

"The player isn't who just reaped my third husband this week. I'm tired." Not physically, not anymore, but emotionally, sure. Tired of suffering negligence while the player built the perfect death box, tired of the deaths weighing on her. There were less draining ways to get cash. Cheat codes, for one. Instant. Painless. 

Another shrug. "Take it up with them. I'm sorry, Jennifer, really am. We've built a good relationship over the past," they glanced at their watch, "ten days."

Jen shot a glare at the ceiling, following the invisible eye she could feel watching her. An idea hit her, distracting her from her anger. "We are pretty good friends, Reaper. How do you feel about..." She paused, considering her phrasing. "... moving in?"

"Oh, totally." Their gaze didn't drift from the cartoon.

Another ping sounded from her sim-phone. She checked this time, and laughed, sharp. "You only have five hundred simoleans?"

Shrug number three. She'd have to allow it; there was only so much you could express with an endless void for a face. "I don't get paid for this, you know."

"Well, we can share the profits now."

And share they did. Two husbands a week, fifteen thousand simoleans a pop. A bed, by the end of week one. By the end of her life, their time could be measured in millions - both money and kisses.

"What will you do when I'm gone, Reaper?" Jen asked, swiping a stray silver hair from her face. She picked up her last game piece and toppled theirs, then sat back and looked into their void.

"Start a business. Get more dogs. Use the bathroom. Take a vacation. Eat some pizza. Watch cart - "

"Oh, shut up," she said, and laughed. "You have a good life ahead of you, Reaper." They shrugged and stood and offered her their hand. "I wish more of it could be with me."

She stood, folding her soft fingers into their boney ones. A portal opened across the room, and they walked towards it, toge -

"Fuck!" Jodie wiggled her mouse, hit some keys at random. "Fuuuuck." The screen had gone dark, mere moments before Jen's death. She should have seen it coming; the game started acting funny the first time she saved after adding the Reaper.

Finally, the desktop - a pixelated photo of her dog - loaded. She clicked on the Sims icon, waited through the loading screen. Jodie held her breath, and clicked the save file.

Her dog's low-resolution face greeted her.

"Fuck." She glanced at the clock. Four a.m. Jodie sighed. Fine. She'd start a new file in the morning.


End file.
